Listen all I pray,
To the words I have to say;
In memory sure insert ’um:
Rich wines do us raise
To the honour of baies, —
Quem non fecere disertum?
Of all the juice
Which the gods produce,
Sack shall be preferr’d before them;
Tis sack that shall
Create us all
Mars Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.
We abandon all ale,
And beer that is stale,
Rosa-solis, and damnable hum;
But we will crack
In the praise of sack
’Gainst omme quod exit in um.
This is the wine
Which in former time
Each wise one of the magi
Was wont to arouse
In a frolick bouse
Recubans sub tegmine fagi.
Let the hop be their bane,
And a rope be their shame,
Let the gout and collick pine ’um,
That offer to shrink
In taking their drink
Seu Graecum sive Latinum.
Let the glasse go round,
Let the quart-pot sound,
Let each one do as he’s done to:
Avant, ye that hug
The abominable jug;
’Mongst us Heteroclita sunto.
There’s no such disease
As he that doth please
His palate with beere for to shame us:
’Tis sack makes us sing
Hey down adown ding;
Musa Paulo majora canamus.
He is either mute,
Or doth poorly dispute,
That drinks aught else but wine, O:
The more wine a man drinks,
Like a subtle sphinx,
Tantum valet ille loquendo.
’Tis true our soules
By the lowsie bowles
Of beere that doth nought but swill us,
Do go into swine,
(Pythagoras, ’tis thine)
Nam vos mutastis et illos.
When I’ve sack in my braine,
I’m in a merry veine,
And this to me a blisse is:
Him that is wise
I can justly despise;
Mecum confertur Ulisses.
How it cheares the brains,
How it warms the vains,
How against all crosses it arms us
How it makes him that’s poore
Courageously roare,
Et mutatas dicere formas!
Give me the boy,
My delight and my joy,
To my tantum that drinks his tale:
By sack that he waxes
In our syntaxes,
Est verbum personale.
Art thou weake or lame,
Or thy wits to blame?
Call for sack, and thou shalt have it;
’Twill make thee rise
And be very wise,
Cui vim natura negavit.
We have frolic rounds,
We have merry go downs,
Yet nothing is done at randome;
For when we are to pay
We club and away,
Id est commune notandum.
The blades that want cash
Have credit for crash,
They’ll have sack, whatever it cost ’um;
They do not pay
Till another day,
Manet alta mente repostum.
Who ne’er failes to drink
All cleare from the brink,
With a smooth and even swallow,
I’le offer at his shrine,
And call it divine,
Et erit mihi magnus Apollo.
He that drinks still,
And never hath his fill,
Hath a passage like a conduit;
The sack doth inspire
In rapture and fire,
Sic æther æthera fundit.
When you merrily quaffe,
If any do off,
And then from you needs will passe ye,
Give their nose a twitch,
And kick them in the britch,
Nam componuntur ab asse.
I have told you plain,
And tell you again,
Be he furious as Orlando,
He is an asse
That from hence doth passe,
Nisi bibit ab ostia stando.